


Catch Me, I'm Falling

by Mireborn



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awesome Howling Commandos, Blood and Injury, Depression, F/M, Gen, Heavy Angst, Lost Bucky Barnes, Major Character Injury, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Suicidal Thoughts, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 22:58:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18508795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireborn/pseuds/Mireborn
Summary: The war has changed Bucky. There’s an edge to him now. A darkness lurking beneath the surface. Steve doesn’t know if he was like this before he dragged him from Zola’s hellhole, but he supposes it doesn’t matter exactly when it happened. Just that it did. This isn’t the man who left him behind in Brooklyn. Steve doesn’t know how to reach him, how to save him from himself. What he does know is his sergeant will kill himself if he keeps going on like this. And the thought of Bucky dying makes his stomach clench in dread.





	Catch Me, I'm Falling

They’ve been camped at this ruined farm, deep behind enemy lines, for three days. The windows have no glass and half the roof has caved in, but the meager shelter the farmhouse provides from the chill wind is better than pitching tents in the deep snow drifts outside. The structurally intact, second-floor room the Howling Commandos are bunked in looks like a master bedroom, going by the bug infested double mattress they’ve shoved against the wall. They sleep huddled side by side on the floor in their bedrolls instead of lighting a fire in the generous hearth. Better to be cold than attract the attention of any passing Nazis.

Steve isn’t sure what’s brought him to instant wakefulness at first. There’s no noise or movement to break the chill peace. No Nazi bending over him with a knife at his throat. It’s the pitch black of night, but thanks to the serum Steve’s able to make out the shapes of his sleeping men without lighting one of their gas lanterns and disturbing them. All is quiet, as it should be, save for the low buzz of the receiver by Gabe’s bedroll. He must have fallen asleep scanning the airwaves for any messages from either HQ or Agent Carter. Steve will have to turn it off soon to conserve the battery, but he’s loath to abandon his warm bedroll for the cold just yet. With a quiet sigh he turns over and his heart sinks when he finds the bedroll next to him empty.

_Not again… Damnit, Buck. Have you slept at all on this mission?_

Moments later Steve is dressed, his hands buried in warm gloves and a thick beanie pulled down over his ears. Stepping carefully he switches off the radio receiver and makes his way out of the room. Knowing where Bucky will be, Steve climbs the attic stairs and pulls himself up onto the farmhouse roof through the gaping hole in the attic ceiling. Some of the rotting roof tiles collapse beneath his foot and he mutters a quiet curse as he staggers on the steep slope before finding his balance once more. He winces internally as the clatter of the falling tiles picks up company on the second floor, before hitting the sink in the ruined kitchen on the ground floor.

“Jesus, Rogers. You looking to bring the krauts down on us with that racket?”

As Steve expected, his best friend is huddled in the shadow of the chimney, his rifle resting on his bent knees as he glares out of the furred hood of his heavy coat.

“It’s Morita’s turn on watch.” Steve ignores the glare and the cold snow seeping through his pants as he takes a seat beside Bucky. “Wanna tell me why he’s sleeping and you’re up here?”  

Bucky shrugs, his gloved fingers flexing about the rifle in his lap. “Wasn’t tired,” he offers, nothing but the tip of his nose visible to Steve as he fixes his face forward to look out over the dark landscape. “Morita was dead on his feet, so I sent him to bed.”

“You’ve told me a variation of the same story the last three nights, Buck.” Despite the layers of clothes between them, Steve feels how Bucky stiffens at his shoulder, holding himself rigid as though he fears the next words he hears will break him. “You forget I see you during the day. You’re so sleep deprived you look like your eyes have been hollowed out of your face. Not even that hood hides them.”

Bucky says nothing, his body so still now Steve would think he was frozen solid save for the noise of each rasping breath he’s taking. The silence stretches on and Steve measures time by each of the dragging respirations Buck takes. _Please just talk to me, Buck… Please…_

The worst part about joining the frontlines of the war isn’t the blood and screaming or death. It’s not the lack of good food or the filth. It’s not the thought that the next mission could be his last. It’s not even following orders. It’s this. The gap that has grown between the two of them. A gap Steve is struggling to bridge.

Back in Brooklyn, before this war, Steve had thought nothing would ever come between them. He’d pictured them growing old together, attending Bucky’s wedding, being an uncle to his inevitable children. He’d never pictured a time when they wouldn’t understand each other, when they wouldn’t talk. He’d never imagined Bucky becoming a stranger.  

The war has changed Bucky. There’s an edge to him now. A darkness lurking beneath the surface. Steve doesn’t know if he was like this before he dragged him from Zola’s hellhole, but he supposes it doesn’t matter exactly when it happened. Just that it did. This isn’t the man who left him behind in Brooklyn. Steve doesn’t know how to reach him, how to save him from himself. What he does know is his sergeant will kill himself if he keeps going on like this. And the thought of Bucky dying makes his stomach clench in dread.

“Talk to me, Buck? Please.” Steve tucks his gloved hands in his armpits and digs his heels into the snow beneath his feet, pushing clumps of the white powder free to slide a few inches down the roof. “We’re all worried about you. Even Duggan has noticed there’s a problem and we both know he’s obtuse at the best of times.” 

Time passes in continued silence and Steve resists the urge to shake his friend in frustration. His instincts tell him it wouldn’t help, would only push Bucky further away, and he doesn’t want Bucky to build stronger walls between them. He wants to tear the existing ones down. When Bucky finally speaks his voice sounds hoarse and his words are unexpected.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Why did you agree to be Erskine’s guinea pig?” Bucky shifts, his shoulders slumping as he curls in on himself about the rifle in his hands. He’s no longer surveying the landscape and neither is Steve as he stares in open-mouthed shock at his friend. Bucky’s face is flushed, his eyes glittering strangely within his hood. “You could have died. Why did you say yes? What made you decide death was a better option than the life you had?”

“I don’t-”

Bucky cuts him off with a scowl. “Don’t bullshit me, Rogers. I swear to god.”

“When did this become about my choices?” Steve is pissed now. His frustration and fear spilling over into a fit of defensive, hissing anger. “I’m not the one who isn’t sleeping, Buck. I’m not the one who’s slowly killing himself because he won’t let anyone help him. Stop deflecting, for fuck sake! Stop pushing me away.”

“I don’t fucking know you anymore!” Bucky’s sudden shout rings through the dark and stabs into Steve’s heart.

The lump in Steve’s throat threatens to choke him and he’s suddenly desperate to get away from this stranger who used to be his best friend. He scrambles to his feet, boots slipping in the snow as he staggers back towards the hole in the roof. He’s barely taken two steps when Bucky grabs the back of his coat and tugs him to a halt. Steve spins on his heel and swings his fist. Bucky lets go of his coat and blocks the strike, his reflexes faster than Steve expects. They wrestle briefly until the snow slides under their boots and they lose their balance. Steve face plants in the sliding snow and flails around for purchase. Then he’s in freefall and thuds down into a deep snowdrift on the northern side of the farmhouse. It hurts, but he’s immediately sure nothing is broken. He’s going to have some nice bruises for the next twenty-four hours though.

“Ow. Fuck,” he groans, sitting up and wiping the snow off his face. A similar groan echoes beside him and Steve forgets his anger in a newfound alarm. That was a three storey fall and he has the serum to protect him. His friend has no such luxury. “Buck, you ok?” he hisses as he finds the man flat on his back nearby. Bucky’s shoulders are shaking and a snort of wry laughter escapes him.

“I think I’m good. Fucking rifle beaned me when I landed. Thank fuck the safety was on.”

“Jesus.” Steve pats around Bucky’s face and finds an egg-shaped protrusion on his left temple. “You could have a concussion, Buck.”

“I’m fine. Stop fussing. Jesus.” Bucky swats his hands away and sits up, plucking the rifle out of the drift next to him and brushing the snow off it. Steve watches his jerky motions in silence, unsure what he should say. Sorry, probably, but it’s hard to feel sorry when his attempts to help are always rebuffed. Instead of speaking Steve gets to his feet and brushes the worst of the snow off his clothes. His back is turned when Bucky speaks again.

“I do know you.”

The tone is apologetic, but Steve knows he has more to say so he waits.

“I know you’re still you in there. I just…” There’s a rustling sound that Steve recognizes as Bucky standing and shouldering his rifle. “I know you were never happy with your body – the way it always failed you. I get that. I just don’t understand why you risked death to change it. Was the prospect of death really less fearsome than living as you were? Was it worth it, for this? This war could still kill you, Steve. Why is it better to die here than in your bed in Brooklyn?”

His mind racing Steve faces his friend. With a shock, he realizes it’s almost dawn. He can see Bucky’s face more clearly now in the dark. Bucky’s eyes are darting about, not settling on any one thing. His fingers are fidgeting about the rifle strap, his right foot tapping in the snow. _You’re afraid_ , Steve realizes. _Why are you afraid? What aren’t you telling me?_

“This isn’t really about me, is it?” Steve knows his suspicion is right when Bucky’s eyes flash briefly to his face and away again.

“Stevie.” Bucky sighs and rubs a trembling hand over his face. “Just… I need to know. I need to understand. I need a reason to keep-” He cuts the sentence short. “Please, just tell me.” 

Dread turns Steve’s stomach into a churning, boiling pool. Something is really wrong here. There’s something big, something important he’s missing and, without that information, he doesn’t know how to proceed. _I don’t want to make things worse… Goddamnit, what do I say?_

“Buck…” Steve grips the shoulders of the other man and tilts his head to meet his eyes. “You’ve got to tell me what’s going on, Pal. You’re scaring me.”

Bucky takes a few moments to scan his face, then heaves in a deep breath, letting it out on a ragged exhale. Steve wishes he knew what Bucky saw in his face because whatever it was he decides to lead with his chin and a parody of his Brooklyn bright smile. “It’s almost dawn, Rogers. Best get inside and fire up that transmitter. Today might be the day Peg gets back to us with that intel.”    

“Yeah…” Steve flexes his hands into fists by his sides as he watches his friend disappear into the farmhouse. The dread in his gut is slow to fade and it never goes away completely, because now he’s aware of a hollow darkness in the depths of Bucky’s eyes. A darkness that was never there before.

                                    

* * *

 

Steve’s team reaches the extraction coordinates an hour before Bucky’s. It looks like a disused private airfield, but the only aircraft in sight appear to have been stripped for any usable parts ages ago. The bones of the aircraft are rusted, but the one remaining hangar is structurally sound, though stripped of anything useful and, more importantly, free of snow. The team drop their packs and weapons and settle in for the wait.

“Should I radio for extraction, Cap?” Gabe sets the receiver down carefully and pulls off the waterproof cover. Steve shakes his head in the negative.

“We wait until the Sergeant’s team returns.”

After dropping his pack and resting his shield against it Steve heads over to Morita who’s got his med kit out to patch a knife wound to Falsworth’s forearm. The Brit gives Steve an easy grin through the soot smearing his face when he sees him approaching.

“All good, Captain. I don’t even need stitches. I’ll be right as rain before you know it. Just bled like the dickens.” He winces as Morita washes the wound clean.

The field medic gives Steve a nod of confirmation as he applies a dressing. “It’s not deep. Should heal cleanly. He’ll be fine.”

The relief brings a smile to Steve’s face and the four of them settle into a game of poker, using the battered deck of cards Gabe carries everywhere with him like a lucky talisman. The scene is one of comfortable peace until Dum Dum and Dernier burst in, Bucky hanging like a wet noodle between them with an arm over each of their shoulders.

“Jesus,” Steve hisses in alarm, the red blossoming over the right side of Bucky’s coat hard to miss. _It’s a thick coat, so he must be bleeding like a stuck pig under there._ Steve swallows hard and just manages to stay out of the way as Dum Dum lowers Bucky carefully to the floor and Morita strips his sergeant out of his coat. Dernier mutters something in French as he passes Bucky’s rifle and pack to Gabe, but Steve doesn’t bother asking for a translation. Most of his attention is fixed on the sight of his friend and the bleeding wound revealed on the right side of his lower abdomen.

 _Gut wounds mean a slow, painful death,_ Steve’s mind supplies with dread as he tracks the grim look Duggan and Morita share. No one gives voice to the thought, though, and Steve is absurdly grateful for that.

“Bullet went straight through,” Dum Dum supplies, helping Morita to lever Bucky’s limp body up so the medic can check the other wound. “Another inch to the right and it would’ve only got the coat.”

Morita grunts his agreement of this assessment and quickly threads a needle.

As the wound is washed Bucky lurches back to consciousness with a pained groan and twists away from Morita. Dernier and Gabe help Duggan to hold him still and Steve falls to his knees in front of him.

“Buck. Look at me.” Steve’s voice trembles as he grasps hold of Bucky’s hand and squeezes, drawing Bucky’s attention away from the pain. “You were shot. You’ve gotta let Morita work.”

“Fuck…” The curse is whispered through gritted teeth and Bucky’s eyes are glassy as he squeezes Steve’s hand back. “Goddamn… Don’t…” His eyes roll back in his head and he’s gone again.     

A hand squeezes Steve’s shoulder and he looks up to see Falsworth standing behind him. The Brits expression is a mixture of worry, and grief like he’s mourning Bucky’s demise already. The sight causes Steve’s temper to flare in defiance of the odds and he shrugs himself free of the other man’s touch.

“He’s gonna be fine. Stop acting like he’s dead.”

The Howlies stare at him briefly, before their eyes shift away and Steve feels his cheeks color hotly in shame. He doesn’t take back his words or apologize, though. He knows his friend. Everything will be fine.

                                    

* * *

 

Four hours later, Steve is coming out of the evening mess when he’s appalled to catch Bucky staggering out of the med tent. Bucky’s shaking his head adamantly as the field doctor argues with him and Steve rushes over, hardly able to believe what his eyes are telling him.

“What the fuck are you doing, Buck? Get back in there.” 

Bucky’s face is pinched and white as he drags his ruined coat on over the bandages about his torso. He says nothing at first, but resists Steve’s attempts to herd him back into the tent. His resistance is pretty feeble, given his current state, and Steve has almost got him back inside when Bucky mounts a verbal protest.

“No... I can’t… Please?”

Nonplussed, Steve pauses and looks to the doctor for a translation. The doctor throws his hands up in frustration instead.

“I’ve got men coming in wounded from the front every hour, Captain. There are men in there who need and want my help. I don’t have time for this. I strongly recommend he stay, as his injury is serious, but if he’s determined to go, be it on his own head.” With this pronouncement, the doctor returns to his duties and Steve smothers the desire to scream. He can’t really blame the doctor for his position. Bucky never used to be this stupid, he’s sure. Avoiding hospitals was really more Steve’s style before the war.

Once they are relatively alone Bucky sags, and Steve catches him carefully under the arms before he falls. Whatever steam he’d used to get him this far has deserted him and he hisses in pain as he stretches his arm about Steve’s shoulders and lets him take most of his weight.

“You need to be in there,” Steve tries and Bucky shakes his head.

“Can’t… Reminds me… Zola’s lab… Please, Stevie.”

 _Fuck… If I ever get my hands on Zola he’s gonna die a slow and painful death._ Resigned to his lot Steve resolves to take Bucky to his quarters. As an officer, and Captain America, he’s been given a room in the small hotel the allies requisitioned. At least Bucky will have a comfortable bed there, instead of sleeping in the field of tents which circle the requisitioned land. _It’s not like I’m gonna sleep. I’m gonna be too busy watching your stupid ass._

“Ok. C’mon, Buck. I’m taking you to my quarters.”

“Oh, Captain… People… will talk,” Bucky tries, his lips twisting up in a pained grin.

“Fuck off,” Steve chuckles, unable to smooth out the worry lines he knows are creasing his brow as Bucky groans softly with every halting step. “You need me to carry you?”

The look Bucky shoots him would be pure venom if not for the glaze of pain covering his eyes. “Not some… swooning… dame, Rogers,” he bites out, using his free hand to wipe away the sheen of sweat on his brow before it drips in his eyes. The rest of the walk is taken in relative silence and Steve is thankful his room is on the first floor of the hotel. He doubts Bucky could handle stairs in his condition.       

As soon as Bucky is settled on the bed his eyes close in relief and before long he is out cold. He doesn’t even stir when Steve drapes another blanket over him and smooths his sweaty fringe back from his face. _A least he’s getting some sleep now. It’s the best thing for him. I just wish it hadn’t taken a serious injury to knock him out._ Heaving a loud sigh Steve lights a lamp, gathers some paper and a pen, and starts plotting out his report of the successful mission. Another Hydra base is gone. The world a better place without it.

                                    

* * *

 

“Ah, god, no…” Bucky slurs, followed by a loud groan as he twists on the bed. “Barnes… Sergeant… 325…5…70…38…”

“Fuck.” Steve sets aside the conclusion of his mission report and leans forward in his seat to grasp Bucky’s flailing right hand. His friend continues to mutter the same thing over and over, his eyes shut in sleep, his brow creased in pain and fear. Steve knows this nightmare. It’s the only one Bucky has. Steve has been woken by it frequently in the field, but Bucky refuses to talk about it. He also refuses to discuss what happened to him while Zola’s prisoner, but they’ve all seen the physical scars and been able to glean enough to sicken them without knowing for sure.

“Bucky, it’s Steve. You're safe,” he tries, standing up to lean over the bed and take hold of Bucky’s left hand as well. “You’re safe. I promise. You’re with me.” Sometimes the sound of his voice works to sooth the nightmare back into sleep, but not tonight. Steve can only guess the pain from Bucky’s wound is seeping into his dreams, adding an extra element of truth to his nightmare. 

“Barnes… Sergeant… 32… 55… 7… 03… 8…”

Bucky arches up from the bed and Steve releases his hands to push against his shoulders instead. It takes more effort than Steve expects to push his friend back down against the pillows and his heart aches when Bucky starts to sob. Through his tears and pain, he still slurs his name, rank and serial number and Steve doesn’t know what to do except for wake him. All this thrashing could snap his stitches if it doesn’t stop soon.

“Buck. Wake up,” he commands, pinching Bucky’s left bicep hard. He pinches the right too, for good measure, and Bucky’s eyes fly open, no hint of recognition there as they fix on Steve’s face. Then his body goes lax and he groans in pain, his right hand drifting towards his belly over the blankets. His moment of wakefulness lasts a few seconds more before he passes out with a ragged sigh.

 _I don’t think he even saw me_ , Steve realizes with worry, releasing Bucky’s shoulders to touch a hand to his friend’s brow. _He’s burning up… Fuck._

He’s not even sure how he gets to the bathroom, his hands trembling as he wets both the hand towels hanging on the rail. Hurrying back to Bucky Steve gently raises his head to place one of the towels under the back of Bucky’s neck. Lowering his head back to the pillows he folds the second towel and places it over his brow. A tremor runs through Bucky’s body and he sighs in his sleep, intermittent trembling taking over as his body fights his fever.

With his own hands shaking Steve folds back the blanket covering his friend and carefully unwinds the bandaging. He’s expecting to find infection under the dressings but is pleasantly surprised to find the wounds look clean. Peering closer he attributes the relative health of the wounds to Morita’s sure skills and redresses them as quickly as he can. Throughout the entire process, Bucky doesn’t stir once. His fever must be due to internal damage, but Steve doesn’t want to dwell too long on that, knowing there is nothing the field doctors will be able to do to fix it. Men die from this sort of trauma all the time at the front.

 _Not you, Buck. Damnit, not you_.

Steve’s eyes fill with tears and he blinks them away, refusing to give in to the grief lurking at the edges of his control. With his elbows on his knees, Steve clasps his hands together and rests his chin against his closed fists. _Please, God. If you’re there, don’t take Bucky. He’s all I have in this world. You took my mom. Let that be enough. Please leave me my friend._

                                    

* * *

 

Bucky’s fever breaks with the dawn and Steve is so relieved he can’t hold back the tears any longer. The sobs wrench out of him, loud, raw and messy, and he clings to Bucky’s hand as his friend mutters incomprehensibly in his sleep before quieting. Bucky’s chest rises and falls with easy breaths now, lines of pain still visible about his eyes and brow, but his color looks much better than it had during the night. He no longer looks like a man on his deathbed. There’s no question in Steve’s mind – however this miracle was achieved, Bucky is on the mend. _You must have nine lives like a cat_ , Steve muses silently, using one of the wet hand towels to scrub his face and blow his nose.  

A light knock sounds on his door and Steve throws the towel aside, hurrying to answer it before the noise wakes Bucky from the first real sleep he’s sure his friend’s had in weeks. He cracks the door and peers out to find Peggy. The petite brunette squeaks in surprise as Steve swings the door open wide and pulls her into his arms, peppering the top of her head with kisses.

“I take it Bucky is on the mend?” she mumbles against his shirt and Steve releases her, a red flush staining his cheeks as she steps inside and he quietly shuts the door. When he turns around he finds Peggy running her fingers gently through Bucky’s hair. “I didn’t expect him to look this well. Morita filled me in on his injury when I returned an hour ago. Of course, I went straight to the med tent, but was astonished to hear he’d discharged himself.” Peggy quirks a brow at Steve. “I was surprised to hear you let him take such a foolish risk with his health, but perhaps you know something about your friend that the rest of us don’t?”

“I couldn’t make him stay there, Peg. He said it reminded him of Zola’s lab. I couldn’t do that to him.”

Peggy sighs in defeat and Steve sees understanding in her eyes as well as fond exasperation. He moves closer, holds out his arms, and Peggy folds easily into his embrace, tilting her head for a kiss. Steve is only too happy to oblige, and for the next few minutes all he is aware of is the heat of her mouth and the warmth of her body pressed against his.

“You two will be the death of me,” she sighs when they part, and her hand comes up to caress the puffy skin about his eyes, the last remaining evidence of his tears. Steve closes his eyes and breathes in her tenderness and care, then gently takes that hand and presses a kiss to her palm. It’s an apology she is familiar with and she sighs again, pulling away slowly. “I’ve got to go. Phillips is waiting and the Howlies will want to know how their sergeant is doing. I’ll make sure they don’t come knocking until you give the word, but I can make no similar promises about Phillips. You know what he’s like about mission reports.”

“I completed my report last night.” Steve squats by his chair and rifles through the papers there until he locates his mission report. Peggy takes it from him with another kiss and then he and Bucky are alone once more.

                                   

* * *

   

Having missed breakfast Steve’s stomach is complaining by the time midday rolls around. He’s just debating whether he feels comfortable leaving Bucky for a few minutes while he goes to the mess when there’s another quiet knock at the door. This time it’s Howard Stark, and Steve is seriously tempted to kiss the man because he brought food. 

“Still out cold?” Howard asks as Steve shovels mashed potato into his mouth as fast as is humanly possible. He nods, by way of an answer as Howard stands on the opposite side of the bed with his hands in his pockets. “Did Duggan tell you how it happened?”

Steve pauses with a fork of mashed potato halfway to his mouth. Something about the way Stark said that rings alarm bells and his appetite suddenly departs with a vicious resurgence of his lurking dread. Placing the plate and fork carefully on the bedside table Steve leans forward in his chair, his hands closing into fists in his lap.

“I didn’t ask him. This is war, Stark. People tend to get shot.”

“Hmm.” Howard doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he bounces on the balls of his feet and fixes a knowing stare on Steve. “You should ask him.”

With an internal sigh, Steve gives in. “I’m too tired for games. What did he tell you, Howard?”

“Well…” Stark takes a seat at the foot of the bed, curling one leg beneath himself and leaning back against the footboard. Steve scowls at the other man in warning before he decides to bounce to test the springs in the mattress or some like bullshit. “Seriously? I’m about to impart knowledge to you and you scowl at me? I’m insulted.”

“I know you. The mattress springs are fine. They don’t need upgrading. Just tell me what Duggan said about Bucky.”

“Fine.” Stark huffs in mock irritation before his expression settles into a serious one Steve has never seen on him before. “Duggan says our boy, here, decided to break cover and turn himself into a rather large, body-shaped target for Hydra to practice on.”

“What?” Steve swallows hard before forming the next words. “Is Duggan saying he stopped fighting?”

“Naw.” Stark’s eyes meet Steve’s, dark and worried. “Barnes went out shooting. Duggan says he took out twelve hostiles before they fired the lucky shot that winged him. The point is, he broke cover when he didn’t need to. He coulda shot those chumps easy where he was positioned.”

The room spins around him and Steve slumps back in his chair with a gasp. _What the fuck, Bucky? What the fuck?_ The man in question sleeps on and a selfish part of Steve wants to shake him out of his slumber and yell at him. Demand to know what the fuck he was thinking? But fear takes control and stays his hand. Steve wishes he could say it was reason, but he’s not about to lie to himself that badly. The longer he doesn’t have to address this, the better, because he’s terrified he won’t like Bucky’s answers.    

 _The world thinks I’m a hero, but I’m not. I’m a fucking coward_.

                                    

* * *

 

It’s five in the afternoon when Steve jerks awake in his chair. _How the hell did I manage to fall asleep? When did I fall asleep?_ He doesn’t remember Stark leaving and the plate of food is still sitting on the bedside table. Stone cold now, not that Steve is inclined to eat it anyway. Bucky is snoring softly in the bed, curled on his left side, and Steve scrubs his hands over his face in an effort to clear the muddled feeling from his brain. _Did I dream that conversation with Stark? No. The plate of cold food proves I didn’t. Fuck…_

Agitation grips him and Steve has to move. Stretching his legs he walks to the window and stares out blankly at the tent filled landscape. Beyond the snow-speckled tents is a line of trees, their tops covered in white. His fingers twitch and Steve snatches up some paper, his pen and carries those items and his chair over to the window. Making himself comfortable he begins to sketch. Phillips will probably ream him for wasting the paper, but Steve doesn’t care. Sketching calms him and right now he needs that badly.

The light is beginning to fade when Bucky comes awake with a groan. “Is that you, Steve? Where the fuck are we?” He groans again, rolling onto his back. “Why the fuck does it feel like a horse kicked me in the guts?”

Steve sets aside his sketching and hands Bucky a glass of water. “You were shot on our mission. You’re in my room at the allied camp.” He takes back the empty glass and turns away from Bucky’s searching gaze to return the glass to the credenza. He knows he sounds pissed and isn’t sure he can face his friend at the moment without erupting like a volcano.

“Fuck. Now I remember. Fucking Hydra punks.”

There’s an edge to Bucky’s voice that Steve doesn’t think is due to the pain, but he can’t parse out the true meaning because Bucky is no longer the man he once knew like the back of his hand. For a moment Steve allows himself to slump against the credenza, his knuckles white where he digs his fingers into the polished wood. It creaks ominously beneath his touch and he loosens his grip, spinning about to face his friend.

“What happened out there, Buck? Why did you break cover?”

“Fuck you, Duggan,” Bucky mutters under his breath as he pushes up onto his elbows. Then he appears to think better of the move and flops down on the pillows once more. His eyes narrow as he glares up at the ceiling. “I saw one of Zola’s fucking grunts and I lost it.” He flicks a glare at Steve. “You were right about me not sleeping. I lost my fucking mind because I couldn’t think straight. Is that good enough for you?”

“No, Buck. It’s not. Not by a long shot.” Because Steve has seen through to the fear masked by the glare. “Yeah, I believe what you’ve just said is part of it, but you’re holding something back. Something that keeps you up at night besides the nightmares.”

“Fuck off, Rogers.” Bucky pushes himself up once more and this time he stays sitting, his right arm pressed against his belly. “Where’s my coat? I’m leaving.”

Now Steve erupts. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You have two fucking bullet holes in you that will drop you as soon as you stand up. You refused the care of the goddamn docs, so I’m it, Pal. You’re not leaving that bed. Lay the fuck back down, and that is an order, Sergeant!”

The tension between them is so thick Steve thinks he’ll need his shield to cut through it. Bucky is flushed with fury, his chest heaving with each angry breath he draws, and when he speaks again every word is laced with venom.      

“I need to piss, Captain. So unless you got a bedpan handy I need to go to the bathroom. Do I have your permission to go take a piss, Sir?”

This has gone so far south that Steve might as well be in Antarctica. Bucky has never looked at him the way he is now – with contempt and resentment burning through every fiber of his being. Regret swamps Steve in a crushing wave. He returns to the side of the bed and offers his hand to Bucky, but the other man swats him away.

“I can get there myself. I don’t need you to hold my cock for me. Fuck off.”

With a grunt of effort, Bucky twists sideways in the bed and lowers his legs to the floor. Steve takes a step back in silence and watches him struggle to his feet. Bucky’s face pales as he straightens up, his right arm still braced against his belly. Taking a deep breath he slashes a questioning glance Steve’s way then takes a slow step in the direction Steve points. To Steve’s combined relief and surprise Bucky makes it to the bathroom unaided, though it takes him ten minutes to get there instead of the few seconds it would take him when healthy. The door slams shut behind him, the glasses stacked on the credenza wobbling with the force of the door hitting the jamb.

“Shit.” Steve hears the sound of piss hitting the toilet bowl and braces himself for Bucky’s return when he hears the flush. He has no idea how to fix this or how to help Bucky with whatever is chewing him up inside. All he knows is he can’t give up on his friend, even if Bucky comes to hate him for his persistence. _At least he will be alive to hate me… Better that than dead._

The hotel room is soaked in an uneasy silence now, with Bucky yet to return from the adjoining bathroom, and Steve frowns in concern _. What could he possibly be doing in there now he’s done pissing? Has he passed out? I didn’t hear him fall…_

Steve taps his knuckles against the bathroom door.

No answer.

“Buck? You ok in there?”

Still no answer. Anxious now, Steve comes to a decision.

“I’m coming in.” Pushing the door open Steve finds Bucky with his hands braced before the bathroom sink, his pale blue eyes fixed on his reflection in the mirror. His shoulders are heaving and Steve is dismayed to see the man is crying; tears rolling down his face in a silent wave. The tears are one thing, but the silence of his sobbing shakes Steve badly. People cry silently when they don’t want or expect to be heard and that is never a good thing in his books, ever.

“Jesus, Buck.” Steve steps fully into the bathroom and, riding on instinct, presses himself against Bucky’s back, hoping to ground him. The silent flow of tears continues as Steve folds his arms about the other man’s chest, pinning his upper arms against his sides. He hopes the strength and warmth of his embrace will break through Bucky’s pain but his friend just continues crying. His chest heaving silently beneath Steve’s hands.  

“It’s ok. You’re ok,” he murmurs in Bucky’s ear. “I’ve got you. You’re ok. Everything will be ok.” In desperation, Steve covers Bucky’s eyes with his right hand and Bucky shudders once, twisting about in Steve’s arms until he sags against his chest with a loud sob. The sudden noise and movement startle Steve, but he tightens his left arm about Bucky’s back and fists his right hand in Bucky’s hair, pulling his head down to his shoulder.

“Steve,” Bucky gasps, the word squeezed out between noisy sobs. “Oh, god… Steve…”

“I’m here. I’ve got you.” Steve feels Bucky’s fists grasping and twisting the fabric of his shirt until it’s pulled uncomfortably tight about his chest, but he doesn’t complain. Instead, he slowly leads his broken friend out of the bathroom and back towards the bed.

By the time they get there, Steve is practically carrying the other man. Reaching down with one hand he throws the covers back and manhandles both of them into the bed. Bucky is clamped to his chest and showing no sign of letting go so Steve grabs a couple of pillows from the head of the bed and uses them to act as support and cushioning for Bucky’s injured side. Then he pulls the covers over the both of them and lays back against the remaining pillows with his sobbing friend on top of him.  

Bucky soaks Steve’s shoulder with his pain as Steve holds him close and cards his free hand through Bucky’s hair. He keeps whispering soothing phrases to his friend, wondering when this storm will pass, and if Bucky will finally be ready to talk when it does. _Please talk to me. It breaks my heart to see you suffering like this._ Steve’s not sure how long Bucky cries for, but the room is fully dark by the time they both fall into a troubled, yet exhausted, sleep.

                                   

* * *

It’s still dark when Steve is woken by the sound of a groan of pain. After a few sleep befuddled seconds he realizes Bucky’s weight is no longer sprawled on top of him and he sits up in alarm, kicking his legs free of the covers.

“Jesus, Stevie. Gimme the covers if you don’t want ‘em,” Bucky mumbles, sprawled on his back to Steve’s left. He groans softly again, hugging a pillow to his stomach as Steve blinks at him in confusion. “Sorry I woke you. Made the mistake of thinking rolling over here would be a good idea. I was wrong. Turns out your rock hard abs are much more comfortable than rolling over two stitched wounds for a mattress. Who would’ve thought it? Fuck…”

Steve huffs out a snort of amusement and pulls the covers up from the foot of the bed, laying back down with an audible yawn. “Need anything else, or you good?” he asks, watching as Bucky pulls his portion of the covers over his head.

“I’m good,” comes the muffled reply.

“Buck?” Steve isn’t sure if now’s the time to broach this topic, but since they are both awake he figures he has nothing to lose by trying. He’s unlikely to get the chance to raise this in private after dawn, as he fully expects they will be cursed with frequent visitors during the day. Steve considers it a minor miracle the Howlies have stayed away for so long already. He knows they all share a bond with their sergeant.  

“Hmm?”

“You wanna talk about what happened before we passed out?”

“I’d rather sleep, but I’m guessing that’s off the table right now.” Bucky peels the blankets away from his face and Steve is heartened to see he looks both awkward and resigned, rather than angry. “Thank you for… Well… You know what for.”

“You’ve done the same for me before.” Steve rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his left arm. “When I was in pain from my scoliosis. When my shitty health was too much for me to cope with. Hell… I’ve even puked on you as you held me. Tears are nothing by comparison.”

Bucky’s lips curve into a wry smile that Steve can just make out in the dark. “Still… Thanks.”

“So… are we talking about it? You gonna stop running?” Steve sees Bucky’s lips turn down and his brow wrinkle in a frown. “C’mon, Buck. Seeing you like that kills me. Talk to me. Let me help you.”

“Goddamn it, Rogers.” There’s no real heat in Bucky’s curse and he rolls his head to the side to lock eyes with Steve. “You’re a real stubborn bastard, you know that?”

“Yeah. You tell me frequently.” Steve reaches out with his free hand and squeezes Bucky’s shoulder. “Peg says the same… maybe with a few more curse words.”

“Smart woman.” Bucky covers Steve’s hand on his shoulder with one of his own and sighs heavily. “Do you remember me asking why you agreed to Erskine’s procedure?”

“Yeah.” Steve sees a full range of emotions flicker across Bucky’s face before he settles for sadness. His fingers close tight about Steve’s hand and he tugs it away from his shoulder. Steve allows his hand to settle on the bed between them instead, trying not to feel hurt by the rebuff. _At least he’s willing to talk, Rogers. Take your wins where you can get ‘em._ “Why is my motivation so important to you?”  

“Because-” Bucky shakes his head in frustration and bangs his fist against the mattress before pushing on. “Goddamn it, Steve. Because every battle I fought on the frontlines, every time I faced a German gun, every time Zola’s thugs dragged me into his lab… Every fight and struggle I endured since I left for Basic, I faced it all, secure in the knowledge you were safe. You were in our Brooklyn apartment, sketching, cooking, and living. Your life, free from war, was my safe place. When I thought I was going to die beneath Zola’s needles and torments I would picture you, sketching by the window, a stupid pencil in your mouth and another forgotten behind your ear. It gave me strength, gave me the will to hold on for another day.”

Bucky’s whole body is shaking with the strength of his emotions and Steve swallows hard as he looks on. He doesn’t dare move and risk distracting Bucky. _This is a wound he needs to lance, no matter how much it hurts me to hear it. And, Jesus… fuck… this hurts._     

“When you appeared above me in Zola’s lab, I thought, this is it. I’ve finally died. It’s finally over and I’ve kept Steve safe.” Bucky punches the mattress again and his face twists, not in physical pain, but pain of a different kind. “Jesus, Steve. How could you fucking betray me like that? Now I’ve got nothing good left to hold onto. Nothing but this shitty war, Zola’s torments, and my fucking nightmares. I’m drowning and there’s no light to lead me to the safety of the shore. I’m sinking, Stevie. I’m sinking…” In an abrupt move, Bucky rolls onto his left side, his back to Steve, pulling the blanket back up over his head.

“Buck-” Steve tries, aware of how faint his voice sounds. He feels like he’s been hit with a live grenade, everything that makes him who he is scattered to the winds.

“No,” comes the quick reply. It’s muffled by the covers over Bucky’s head and hollow with pain. “Don’t. I need… Can you go? Gimme some time.”

Feeling like he’s moving through a soupy fog Steve slides out of the bed and pulls his coat and boots on automatically. Without saying a word he leaves the room and pauses in the corridor. He shakes his head in a vain attempt to clear it then paces out into the hotel foyer and exits into the night.

                                    

* * *

 

The fog in Steve’s mind lifts when a drift of snow from the overhanging hotel roof slides free and slops down on his head. With an embarrassing squawk, he bends over at the waist and hops from foot to foot as he shakes the slush out of his hair and collar. _Shit, that’s freezing… And of course, I forgot my goddamn beanie. Jesus._ For half a second he considers going back for it but good sense prevails instead. Bucky said he needed some time and Steve is gonna give him more than two minutes, even if it means his ears go numb in the process. _It’s the least I can do, and he deserves so much more._

It isn’t currently snowing – thank god for small mercies – so Steve strikes out in the direction of the Howlies campsite, knowing someone is likely to still be awake. Each individual unit has no need to set their own watch while part of this larger allied camp, but Steve knows old habits die hard here. Almost every unit campfire he passes has a man sitting by the flames. None look in his direction as he ghosts past in the shadows of the night and Steve takes a moment to feel pride in how light-footed he’s managed to become. When new to this body he’d clumped around like an elephant and several of the USO girls would complain when he went for a piss in the night. Apparently, his steps had sounded like minor earthquakes to their ears those first few weeks. 

The campfire of the Howling Commandos is just ahead and, sure enough, Steve can make out one of his men huddled by the warm flames. The shadowy figure is stoking the embers with a dry stick from the wood store. He’s too slight to be Duggan, too short to be Jones, and too tall to be Dernier. When the man turns around at Steve’s approach he’s greeted by a broad grin and a welcoming clap on his shoulder.

“Pull up a stump, Captain,” Falsworth murmurs and Steve takes a seat beside him on the large, fallen tree branch the Howlies use as a bench. “How’s the Sarge doing? I don’t mind admitting we’ve all been quite worried. Even Duggan, though if pressed publicly he will deny it.”

“He’s doing ok.” Steve manages a faint smile of reassurance. “The wounds are clear of any infection. He was delirious with a bad fever last night which didn’t break until dawn, but apart from that, his physical injuries seem to be healing up fine. He’s sleeping more than he’s managed in the past few weeks, which can only be a good thing.”

“And his mental injuries?” Falsworth asks shrewdly, picking up on what Steve hasn’t said with the unerring accuracy of a trained bloodhound. “Lord knows we’re all going a little stir crazy out here. War does that. None of us will go home unscathed. However,” the Brit pauses to light a cigarette and offers one to Steve, who shakes his head, no, “it’s not escaped my attention that our Sergeant seems… dangerously withdrawn.” Falsworth blows an enviable smoke ring over the campfire and Steve watches it slowly dissolve into nothing.

“That’s… not untrue.” Steve hesitates, fiercely protective of Bucky’s right to privacy, while at the same time needing to share some of what is happening with someone. Right now he feels as though he’s drowning alongside his friend and this is a state of affairs that will help no one. “He’s struggling, Monty, and it’s partly my fault.”

“How do you figure that?” Falsworth flicks some ash into the campfire and takes another draw on his cigarette before quirking an eyebrow at Steve. “Did you start this war, Captain? Did you give that prick, Zola, his directives? Are you in league with Herr Schmidt?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“Is it?”

Steve watches Falsworth throw the stub of his cigarette in the fire and pull out another. “I was never meant to be here, Monty,” he admits, careful with his choice of words. “If not for the serum I’d still be in the apartment Bucky and I shared in Brooklyn. I tried to enlist four times and was rejected until Erskine found me at Stark’s expo. And Bucky… He never knew about Erskine. He shipped out before I could tell him. As far as he was concerned I was safely away from this war. He counted on that.”

“And?” Falsworth sighs heavily, his newly lit cigarette forgotten in his fingers. “I don’t say this to diminish whatever the sergeant is going through, but none of what you’ve just told me makes you responsible for his suffering. The war was the start of his troubles and Zola added to them. Were it not for your timely arrival at Azzano the sergeant would, in all likelihood, have died.”

That hurts to hear, and Steve can’t, in all good conscience, claim he regrets his solo mission to that hellhole. Not only did he save his best friend, but he rescued many other good men, including the one at his side.

“Captain?” Falsworth grips his shoulder to get Steve’s attention. “You can’t help the sergeant with his mess if you’re buried in your own. Whatever he says to you, however he lashes out, you have to know he only does it because you make him feel safe. He’s at home with you, as he’s always been. He may not realize it yet, but he never lost his North Star. It’s been with him all along.”

                                    

* * *

 

When Steve returns to his room he finds Bucky curled up in the chair by the window. A blanket is wrapped about him like a cocoon as he stares out at the flickering campfires.

“They doing ok without me?” he asks, and Steve nods, stripping off his coat and boots as he makes his way to Bucky’s side.

“I saw Monty. Had a chat. They’re all worried about you.”

“Even Duggan?”  

“Even Duggan.”

Bucky snorts out a wheezy laugh. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“Yeah, well… You know Dum Dum.” Steve perches on the arm of the chair. “Huge fucking heart, but afraid to admit it to an audience.”

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Bucky whispers, fidgeting with the edge of his blanket. “I’m fucked up bad. I don’t know why I take it out on you. I know I shouldn’t, I just-”

“Hey, hey.” Steve runs a hand over the crown of Bucky’s head, grasps his sweat-soaked curls and tugs gently. “I don’t wanna hear it. I’m here, ok. You’ll never get rid of me. I’m fucking indestructible now.” He puffs out his chest and yelps when Bucky pokes him in the pectoral.

“Yeah, indestructible, my ass.” Bucky jabs him again and Steve tumbles to the floor with the unexpected force behind the blow, a surprised laugh busting out of him as he covers his chest with both hands. Bucky leans over, affecting an unimpressed demeanor. “Two pokes in the tits and he’s down for the count. Should I pinch ‘em? Might raise a bruise.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Steve scrambles out of reach as Bucky stretches out one foot in an effort to kick him in the ribs. “I don’t even wanna try to explain mystery bruises in that location to Peggy.”

“You make a good point.” Bucky relaxes back in the chair and his expression grows serious. “I really am sorry, Stevie. I know none of this is your fault. I know this. I’m just… Brooklyn is so damn far away that it doesn’t seem real anymore. It’s like one of those fairy tales ma used to tell when we were little. What we were is all gone. Like it never was.” His hands are trembling in his lap and his chin falls on his chest. “I lost us, Stevie. I lost myself. I lost you.” His breath hitches. “And I don’t know how to get you back.”

“Hey, listen to me, you stupid idiot.” Steve sinks down to his knees in front of Bucky and grasps his forearms, giving him a gentle shake. “I need you to listen to me. Really listen to what I’m saying and take it in.” Bucky’s eyes are large and dark as Steve cups his hands about his face and holds his gaze.

“You never lost me, Buck. Never. I’m still your stubborn punk, still too stupid not to run away from a fight. Do you know anyone else stupid enough or stubborn enough to do what I did? Only your Stevie would risk his life on experimental science just so he could run into a war. Only your Stevie would mount a one-man rescue mission to liberate a prison camp and find his best friend. Only your Stevie would argue with a general about the necessity for better field supplies and damn the cost or consequences. Only your Stevie doesn’t give a shit what the rest of the world says is right.” Steve heaves in a breath and lets it out slowly, his hands sliding down to clasp Bucky’s shoulders. “You’ve always known me. You still know me. And you know damn well I’ll move mountains to help you find yourself again. No matter the cost. You say you’re drowning? Well, I’m your life ring. Just take it. Please.”

Bucky’s lower lip is trembling, his eyes less hollow than before, and Steve pulls him into a firm hug. Bucky’s arms fold about Steve, his hands coming together near his spine, and for several minutes Steve rejoices in the renewed connection he feels between them.

“Thank you, Stevie,” Bucky mumbles into his neck. “Thank you.”

Steve knows there is still a long road ahead for his friend and this is only the first step of the journey. But for now, it is enough. _We’re gonna make it out the other side of this. I know we will. Whatever it goddamn takes we will make it._             


End file.
